


Phoenixes and War Paint

by Shadsie



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Art, Drama, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Healing, Paintings of horror and violence, People only care about artists after they're dead, Post-War, Robin as a character in her own right - Freeform, Tragedy, True Art is Angsty, Underage and non-con stuff only in a couple of small scenes, War, art as therapy, art world, dark and troubled past, hurt-comfort, paintings, rated mature just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadsie/pseuds/Shadsie
Summary: The wars ended long ago.  Libra and Robin settled into a happy life together, but nothing ever lasts.  After Libra is taken home by the gods, Robin is left to sort through the numerous artworks he left behind and to decide what to do with them.  As she does so, she remembers her life with him and the stories he had to tell.  Some people say that true art is born out of misery.  Nevertheless, Robin made it her goal to make Libra smile every day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _**Disclaimer and Notes:** Properties belong to Nintendo. "Fire Emblem: Awakening" fanfiction. Libra x Robin drama. A mish-mash of ficlet ideas I had about Libra rolled into one long story. Contains some references to an earlier story of mine, "Killer Axe" (which doesn’t need to be read to understand this), as well as a tiny blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to a fan-translated version of one of the official CD dramas that I saw on YouTube (centering on Female!Robin). _

**Phoenixes and War Paint**

 

 

 

She felt the key turn the lock sharply.  The hinges on the door made a low groan as she entered the room.  Robin stepped slowly, her aching knees almost as in bad shape as her husband’s had been and she felt an oppressive loneliness sink into her.  She regarded the dust motes hanging in the air, lighted by the long windows and the old battleaxe hanging on one of the walls.  It hadn’t seen use in decades, a keepsake from more violent times. 

 

An easel held an unfinished painting.  Flowers rested in a vase upon a small stool, wilted and drooping with half-dried petals, barely recognizable. The water they were in apparently the source of the sweet-decay smell that permeated the studio.  Tubes, bottles and brushes were scattered across a desk along with jars of filmy water and other, stronger diluting agents.  Robin’s husband had been a multidisciplinary artist, testing out various media on a regular basis.  The canvas on the easel was an oil painting with a basecoat and vague shapes defining what were going to be un-deceased flowers – a simple study.  A piece that rested on the desk near the water-jars was watercolor and ink on thick and bumpy cold-press paper – a deep blue and purple sky with a figure in silhouette of a scared, lost child.  Robin  felt a tug in her heart that told her that the latter piece was something of an autobiography – and perhaps an appropriate final finished piece (with the assumption that it had been finished). Ah, yes, it had been. Upon close inspection, she found the distinctive, almost invisible signature – not a name but a tiny mark like a set of scales.      

 

The room was just as Libra had left it a month ago, which meant that it was hers to clean up. At least, she was making an inventory of it before letting their son, Morgan and the eldest grandchildren do any heavy-lifting.  She knew what drawers the paints and inks belonged in and where to put the pencils, pens and brushes.  There were different sets for different media and though she did not know much about art, Libra had trained her enough to know what media and materials must never mix if the tools were to remain useful.  She also wanted to get a good look at the paintings kept in here before making a decision as to what to do with them.  There were many finished pieces in this room, pieces never meant to be hung or even to be seen by eyes not belonging to Libra or to her.  Robin was certain she’d find a few canvases and papers that weren’t meant for even her eyes.    
  
She startled when she rifled through a stack of lazily leaning canvases rested up against the art-desk.  The dark, red-eyed visage of Grima stared back at her from one of them and she caught her breath, reminding herself that it was just a painting.  The memory had apparently been as vivid for Libra as it had been for her, because it was a very skillful portrait-of-sorts of that emperor of death glaring down from a storm-cloaked sky.  It was done in thick, impressionistic strokes rather than fully-detailed realism, but the impact was all the greater for it. Everyone who’d faced that evil had borne scars of the heart from it and it showed up in the things that they did. Brady’s music, for instance – his apocalyptic rondos were known throughout the land by now and no other instrumentalist who tried to do covers of his songs could quite capture the depth of sheer despair his music encompassed.  The writings of Laurent and Owain captured the Fear in the form of descriptive text that most readers assumed must have been exaggerated.  Libra’s brushstrokes were a visual take that had nearly given Robin a heart-attack. 

Her right hand ached, although the old brand was long-absent.   
  
This was definitely a piece that he kept locked up so as not to scare the orphans.  It was doubtful that he’d wanted anyone to see it, it being obviously one of his “exorcism pieces.”  That was the name he’d chosen for the art he did as a personal catharsis, the works that he did not sell to keep the finances of the Border Hills Home on an even keel.  Truth be told, he had taken some convincing at first to sell even his “standard” pieces.  Virion and Gaius had basically swindled him into it with a clever plan (Robin-aided) that had involved stealing some of the landscapes, florals and religious pieces he’d done for personal enjoyment and to decorate the halls of the Home out from under him to sell to some nobles that Virion knew.  The money was given to the Home.

 

Afterward, the artist forgot and forgave any feelings of betrayal he might have had when he found getting new clothing and winter holiday gifts for the children much easier that year.  Libra had always been shy about his art and hadn’t anticipated how well-liked his work would be among collectors, in fact, he’d feared ridicule for his “mediocre” style and the idea that anyone he didn’t personally know would even want his art hadn’t occurred to him.   After that incident, he took to selling some of his art freely, but only certain pieces.  His “standard art” was very much different from his private art.  Enough people in Ylisse and lands beyond had become familiar with his “soulful and melancholic” style, but they did not see the “exorcism pieces.” 

 

They were, in a word, brutal.  Scenes of war, of death – dark themes that went beyond melancholic, they were works that Libra had needed to do to sort out his soul, but they were not meant for sale or display in anyplace other than this small room. 

 

Robin sat down in a chair at the art desk.  She carefully looked through stacks of pictures, both from those on paper and in sketchbooks piled on the desk and through the stacks of canvases.  What was to be done with all of these?  Didn’t the world deserve to see the other half of her husband’s soul?  He wasn’t overly protective of his work - he’d made no demands about it, he’d just chosen not to share all of it.  She knew she didn’t have the heart to destroy any of it. 

 

The orphanage was his true legacy and it needed a bolster in its trust fund.  Robin contemplated the tendency for the art of deceased artists to increase in value. It was something that Anna had discussed with her.  She shivered slightly where she sat.       
  
The former military tactician was surprised that they had both gotten to a ripe old age.  Libra had died a month ago and the passing was peaceful.  His face was wrinkled, his hair (still long, he kept it long throughout his adult life) was steel gray, a mix of blond and white, well on its way to becoming the mystic-white that his wife had borne from youth. He’d reared several generations of needy children.  His knees were creaky from years of kneeling in prayer and he’d spent his last years walking with cane or getting around in a chair to which wheels had been attached. 

 

He’d been sitting in the garden, a book in hand; _The Astounding Adventures of Odin Dark: Wanderer of Nohr_ when he’d appeared to just drift off to sleep.  Robin hadn’t noticed anything amiss until she’d nudged his shoulder and he’d slumped over, the victim of something random in the heart, a condition that neither he nor any other healer had known about prior.  In fact, aside from the condition of his knees, he’d been apparently very healthy, his death rather sudden and surprising.  Robin, the victim of a touch of bronchitis or full-out pneumonia almost every winter, assumed and feared that she would go first.  Her grief, therefore, had come with a measure of relief.  She had already left him once and had by a miracle returned.  She dreaded the idea of tearing Libra’s soul to pieces by leaving him a second time, so as much as her loneliness hurt, what had happened was appropriate. She decided that she would be joining him soon enough. 

 

In the meantime, it was left to her to make executive decisions regarding what he had left behind. 

 

At least she’d managed to get him to smile that morning – before he left her.  That had become a goal she had set for herself since the days when they were young:  Any day that she could encourage Libra to crack a smile was a good day.  It had gotten much easier in their latter years. Most days he would smile even without her saying something particularly funny or sweet.  Just waking up beside her put a grin on his face most mornings before it was time to get to the business of the day.  Their world had become much better place than the world in which they had met each other. 

 

Robin held up a long canvas before her.  This was an old piece.  It depicted fallen monks in the sand, the remains of the brothers of the White Order of Naga, their pale clothing stained in red, axes and staves broken and left upon the ground beside them.  It was a panorama of steel and blood and bone.  The fingers of Robin’s right hand hovered over the figures in turn, whispering the names of each warrior.  She remembered every name that Libra had given her and every story he’d had about them.   
  
The day she had met Libra was not a day for smiles.

 

 

 

The Shepherds were running and riding through the desert, the wind whipping up harsh sand in their faces, beneath the looming bones.  The fossil of an ancient dragon was to one side of them, the stones of palace walls to another and dust and grit all in between.  This was a rescue mission and the goal was clear.  Their target was located upon one of the dead dragon’s horns, guarded by an executioner and with enemy troops positioned thickly below.  Robin had already directed some of her key soldiers to sneak past the lines while she traveled with the vanguard that was making a direct assault upon King Gangrel’s command.  Exalt Emmeryn was not going to be easy to rescue, but she was determined to do it.  The Shepherds held full confidence in her plan. 

 

She was with Chrom when they spied a figure to the south, an axe-wielder who was fighting off Plegian soldiers on approach to them.  The figure called to them – a feminine voice, but strong – but the words were indistinct through the flailing wind. 

 

When the last of the enemy in the area fell, Robin snapped her fingers to get Chrom’s attention.   
  
“Go talk to her, I’ll cover you,” she said. 

 

Watching for more enemy-approach, Robin stayed at Chrom’s side as he addressed the weary fighter.  Robin recognized the clothing of Ylissean clergy, though it was in a modified, armored form and unlike the princess-like cleric’s garb that young Lissa wore.  As the ally spoke with the prince, Robin peered to the track of land south of them and spied bodies, some in Plegian uniforms, some dressed in the priestly collars. 

 

“I lost many brave comrades…” 

 

The fighter explained that they were the last of a group of monks and clerics that had caught wind of what was to happen to Lady Emmeryn and had seen fit to storm the desert to try to save their Exalt – (and Emmeryn was seen as a holy-woman in Ylisse, as well as a political leader) – despite being outnumbered.  As Robin silently listened, she’d found herself uncritical of the plan, as the group of axe and tome wielding clerics, monks and sages had snuck in from an unguarded point and executed their plan smartly and solidly, up until a point. Tragically, they had been found and ambushed before they could reach the Shepherds. It was not unlike what had happened to Cordelia’s squadron of Pegasus Knights.  The Shepherds would have been overwhelmed by enemy soldiers by now if the holy-warriors hadn’t been there to hold them off.     

 

Chrom’s troops were to receive aid from an army nearly the size of his own elites, but now it was down to a single person. 

 

The prince startled when the newcomer corrected a “small but forgivable” mistake.  Robin had made it, too, but that was only because she was not looking closely, her attention on the skies for wyvern-riders and upon the sands for approaching spearmen.  The survivor was a war monk – a man.  Chrom had taken him for female.  Robin instantly wondered if this “Libra” was one of those rare people who was born with a body inconsistent with their spirit, but did not ask.   
  
“Come with me,” she said.  “Stay behind me.  Chrom, ride with Sully.” 

 

Chrom did as directed, quickly finding the cavalier and mounting on the saddle of her strong white horse behind her.  The blond monk marched with Robin, stopping only to bind up a small wound on his leg and to down a concoction that she passed to him.   
  
“Unfortunately, my stave does not heal the wielder,” he explained. 

 

“And, unfortunately, I have not yet trained in using a stave,” Robin replied.  “We don’t have much time, but take it anyway.  You’re exhausted.” 

 

She briefed him on her plan and asked him about his skills.  “I’ve got the Feroxi Khans out there, hidden.  We’ll make it. Just stay with me and do exactly as I say.” 

 

“That I will do,” Libra said.  “Stories of Lord Chrom’s ‘undefeated tactician’ did reach the ears of my order, believe it or not.  I only regret that we were not able to come to your aid sooner.  Excuse me… I… It is just me now.” 

 

“This is your first time in a real battle,” Robin stated.  She got a good look at the man’s eyes and one gaze told her everything. 

 

“Yes,” Libra said reluctantly, “Although I have been rigorously trained.  I hope that my inexperience hasn’t…shown too much.” 

 

“You’re a fine fighter,” Robin assured, “It’s just that your eyes tell me that killing is new to you.” 

 

He regarded her with another sad gaze.  “I can only pray the forgiveness of the gods for my actions, but my order saw no other way.” 

 

“It gets easier,” Robin said, trying to be assuring. 

 

“I hope it doesn’t,” the man answered.   

 

 

 

Robin rested the picture up against the desk.  The dead figures in it were painted in exquisite detail – very loving for such a grim subject.  She remembered seeing bodies strewn in the sand those decades ago, but had not known any of them and could not match faces with names intimately, only knowing them by description and by a few portraits she’d seen in an old sketchbook, pictures Libra had drawn of his “family” when they had been alive.  They had been as important to him as the Shepherds later became.

 

 

The Shepherds were at rest at Khan’s palace in Regna Ferox a week after the Fall of Emmeryn.  They had barely escaped with their lives, pursued by the Plegian forces. In fact, Robin had nearly lost her life when she and small group of others had gotten separated from the main army.  She’d fallen ill in a small abandoned village, necessitating heroic measures on Chrom’s part to hunt out the cure.  Libra had gotten separated from her group and she only saw him again when everyone was able to path-find and to be smuggled into Feroxi territory. 

 

Robin spent her time in the castle recovering by a fireplace and reviewing her plans, her mind trapped in the near-past.  “If only,” she groused to herself.  It was her first defeat since she had been adopted into the Shepherds.  Chrom and the Khans were determined to regroup and to fight Gangrel on his own grounds, but Robin feared that she had just definitively lost the nation of Ylisse.   
  
“No, no, no…” she grumbled as she arranged little borrowed game pieces representing different units on a map.  Truth be told, there really had been no way that she could have anticipated Aversa’s calling up of Risen to join the fray and the mysterious  “Foreseer” that she and Chrom had previously met had been nowhere to be  found.  One was to assume that “Marth” did not know every outcome, either, for she had just aided in thwarting a previous assassination attempt on Emmeryn.  A fat lot of good that did, in the end. 

 

Robin worked around her plans and found that even in imagined scenarios in which she’d had some kind of supernatural power to guess Aversa’s trump-move, each plan ended the same:

 

Death. Death. Death.

 

The result was always Emmeryn’s death, one way or another, or a relinquishing of the Fire Emblem, or the deaths of every Shepherd, including their new war monk and their defector-Plegian dark mage. 

 

Robin knew that she would be called upon to concoct a strategy for facing Gangrel anew, as soon as the spies returned with news of enemy movement.  However, for the time being, she was just in no shape for it.  She had lost – big. She could lose again.  All of them, each one of her friends – her surrogate family, as they had become – could be very well riding right into the jaws of death very soon and in the end their blood on the sand would be her fault. 

 

She rose from her seat and donned her hood for a walk through the halls.  She caught some indistinct mumbling from an alcove.  She wandered toward it and saw the glow of candlelight.  She came up behind a kneeling figure, hands clasped at his forehead before rows of lit candles, his blond hair golden in the dim light.  His whispers fell over a litany of names, each in turn.  The space he was using as a chapel wasn’t one – or at least it wasn’t dedicated to Naga, but instead to half-forgotten Feroxi war-gods, but the Ylissean priest was using it as cove of Naga all the same. 

 

Robin clutched the front of her coat to her chest.  Aside from poor Emmeryn, she at least had not lost anyone she’d personally known in the last fight.  Poor Libra had lost everyone – all of his brothers and sisters.  She listened cautiously as he prayed for the welfare of their spirits. 

 

“Care to join me?” 

 

She startled.  Robin had not known that he was aware of her presence. 

 

“S-sure,” she said hesitantly as she knelt beside him upon a long cushion.  “I… don’t really know much about doing this,” she confessed.  “What I mean is… I mean no offense to the gods, it’s just that I am more a person who believes in human action, I guess.”

 

“This precedes action,” Libra said softly.  “And it is what one does when nothing else can be done.” 

 

“I am so sorry.  I… I only knew Emmeryn, and not very well at that.  I was an admirer – drawn to her ideas.  She was a fine ruler. There’s not much of substance that I can say to Chrom or to Lissa.  I…just, right now… I don’t even really know how to grieve.  I should have done more… but you… your personal losses…it must be so hard.  If there is anything I can do to help you…” 

 

“Thank you,” he replied simply.  “I can teach you the way to approach Naga, if you’d like.  It must be especially difficult for a former Grimleal.”

 

“Former Grimleal?” Robin asked with a start, not getting up.  “Those cultists?  I…”

 

“You aren’t?” Libra inquired. “Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry! It’s just that mark on your hand.  I know that symbol.  It is a symbol used by hierophants and acolytes of Grima.  Do you bear it for some other reason if you were not formerly among them?”

 

“I… I don’t know,” Robin said.  “I do not know how much you have been told about me, but I am an amnesiac.  I came into Lord Chrom’s employ when he found me injured in a field.  I have no memories of anything prior to that day.  Try as I might, everything is a complete blank.  I may have been among the Grimleal – I just do not know.  I hope this does not dampen your trust of me.” 

 

“Not at all,” Libra replied gently, “Although… In honesty, I must say that I don’t have much trust of others to begin with.”   

 

“Oh,” Robin said, her eyes downcast.

 

“I am…trying.” 

 

 

 

Robin looked through more paintings – some of which were truly terrifying.  There was one of a silver axe planted into the ground, the head splashed with blood and what she recognized as brain-matter that she could only describe as “lovingly rendered.”  There was another of a war-horse that had been slain by a spear, viscera spilled from its belly.  There were battlefields that were gruesome rather than the triumphant images that hung in Ylisstol Palace.    

 

These dark images were history as it really was.  As much as Robin had problems with her memory, she remembered these things. 

 

She came upon images drawn from the inside of healer’s tents.  One small watercolor piece depicted bandages, suturing materials, an empty vulnerary-vial and a steel hemostat upon a blood-spattered tray.  Another depicted a silver-haired young man sitting patiently upon a cot with an arrow in his back. The youth appeared to be laughing.  Henry.  She’d remembered that very same scene.  It had been merely a flesh-wound, but Henry’s laughter over it had disturbed her highly.  Of course Libra had treated him rather than let Henry sit around, even if Henry didn’t care about the pain at the time and was more interested at looking at the bloodstains on his hands – but for an image from memory, it was highly skilled. 

 

Her mind was made up.  Robin, indeed, would talk with Virion about these private works.  The world had only the surface of Libra’s soul through his artworks to enjoy.  They needed the full measure – if for nothing more than to show the truth about war and what it does to the minds of sensitive beings. 

 

Ylisse had enjoyed peace for many years.  Robin had enjoyed greatly shifting out of life as a tactician and into the life of an orphanage headmistress. She remained a strategic advisor to the Exalt, but did not have to deal with a full-blown war after the conflicts with Plegia, Valm and Grima itself were a done deal.  Always on guard, she’d prayed every day for the peace to last and for her services to never be needed for Ylisse again for as long as she lived.  She had gotten that wish, for her age was too advanced for her to do what she’d done in the days that had made her famous – planning and lectures on tactics, perhaps, but running around a battlefield – no.  Tactician-skills had been passed onto the next generation.  Robin also continued to pray every day that the skills she’d taught to her this-timeline birth-son and that he had eagerly absorbed would not need use.  For his part, Morgan had not been disappointed and he’d found other career paths in which he employed strategic thinking – mainly to maintain the peace.

 

Yes, this art was a call for peace if she’d ever known one.  She just hoped that she was not betraying her husband.  However, he was gone now, she hoped to a place where he would not feel his scars being touched. 

 

 

 

 

“He has an incredible darkness within him,” Tharja said with a cool smirk.

 

“Why would you say that?”  Robin asked within the war-tent as she took time out to gaze upon the carefully-unwrapped drawing that Libra had given her, making sure it had survived the march and move of camp.  The Ylissean army had planted itself somewhat near a town that was having some sort of festival.  They were here by coincidence – the area was just a good place to settle and to get the troops rested before proceeding onto the next front.  Some of them were making plans to enjoy the festival while off-duty. 

 

“We have spoken,” Tharja intoned. “And he has allowed me to… shall we say… see a few things he’d rather keep hidden.  I am merely warning you.  I have seen the way you look at him.  I do not wish any harm to come to my dear, sweet Robin.” 

 

“Tharja, please!” Robin laughed.  “He’s a friend – and very reliable in battle I might add.  And I don’t…”  
  
“Hmmm…” 

 

Later that afternoon, Robin found herself in town stopping at a tavern for lunch with a few of her compatriots.  She took tea at a table with Maribelle while Libra sat alone at the bar to a meal.  The place was lively and crowded, a bit too loud for Robin’s taste, but given that the city was in festival-mode, she didn’t think they’d be able to find anyplace that was quiet. 

 

A man sat down on a stool sideways next to Libra. 

 

“Oh, no, not again,” Maribelle huffed.  “At least it’s only one asinine knave this time.  Hopefully Libra will just be able to tell him off.”

 

“Huh?” Robin asked, “What’s going on?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Maribelle said. 

 

“Oh,” Robin said, a blush coming to her cheeks.  “He does draw a lot of attention, doesn’t he?  From what I heard around camp, he was very diplomatic with Virion.”

 

“Damned drunks,” Maribelle grumbled.   

 

“Hey there,” the man said.  “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ comin’ into a place like this with an axe strapped to your back, huh?  If yer army’s full a’ knockouts like you, sign me up for duty!” 

 

“Please leave me be,” Libra asked. 

 

“Oh, come on, lighten up there, sister!” 

 

“I am a sister to no one.  Please hear out my request.” 

 

“Should we do something?” Robin asked.  “Libra looks most uncomfortable. I think he’s shaking.” 

 

“Let’s say we go back to my place, honey… it’s not exactly quiet in here.”  
  
“By Naga, leave me be!  Or at least get yourself some coffee.  Your breath is making me feel faint, sir.”  

 

That was when the barfly reached an arm right around Libra and gave him a light grope between the legs.  The events that followed would forever appear in Robin’s memory as a series of events in slow motion, although they took but an instant.  First the drunkard got a look of extreme surprise upon his face – upon having found something unexpected, no doubt.  Libra leapt out of his seat and in one fluid move, took the steel axe from its holster  on his back.  He swept the blade toward his assailant as fiercely as he did when dealing with an enemy in battle.  The unarmed man slipped on his own heel as he tried to run away.  The tavern patrons screamed.  The axe’s head came crashing down upon an empty table, inches from the head of the drunk, who, in a split-instant, became sober enough or at least aware enough of his surroundings to perform the luckiest of dodges. 

 

When it was all over, the axe was buried in a bifurcated table and its intended victim was curled in a quivering fetal ball upon the floor.  Gawking patrons surrounded the scene as Libra stood with his head bowed, took his hands off the axe handle and begged “Gods forgive me!” 

 

“Someone call the guards!” screamed the drunkard.  “That crazy tranny just tried to kill me!” 

 

“Tranny?” Maribelle inquired, arching an eyebrow.  What proceeded  out of her mouth was a tirade that Robin would not remember the details of, but would feel the heat coming off of for the rest of her days. 

 

The city guards came streaming in and Libra quietly submitted to arrest. 

 

Robin could not believe it.  One of her soldiers – one of her Shepherds, no less, had almost murdered an unarmed man – what was more was that it was Libra of all people.  She could imagine a drunken Gregor possibly pulling off such a feat – perhaps confronted with an unsatisfied ex-client from his mercenary work.  She could imagine Panne doing something like this out of an animal-fear-instinct toward a racist hunter.  The one person she would have never guessed they’d have problems with was their healer with the gentlest hands. 

 

Robin immediately sought out Chrom.   

 

The rest of the evening for the Shepherds was spent watching Maribelle dress-down the local judge and Robin posting a bond to get Libra out of a jail cell.  Chrom insisted that the war monk was a vital part of the Ylissean army and had to shift his weight as Exalt on behalf of their friend.  

 

Libra came to talk with Robin in her tent that night, obviously trusting her just enough to get the entire incident off his chest. 

 

“I would have done something similar, Libra,” she assured.  “I probably would have kneed the jerkass in the stomach and flipped him over a table – or introduced him to a little bit of shock-therapy.”

 

“I almost murdered him.” 

 

“And the outcome would have been the same. We would have bailed you out.  As far as I’m concerned, the man deserved what he got.  Let’s not even think of what Maribelle would have done.”  Robin laughed softly. “Personally, I am imagining a parasol in… uncomfortable places.” 

 

Libra smiled slightly. 

 

“Good,” Robin said. “Looks like I did my duty for the day.”

 

“You know that I’m not easy with touching.”   
  
“We know. It’s pretty plain.  You have no trouble touching others to heal them but we can all see how you shy from approach… that, and Nowi told us a few things.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“She was only looking out for you, as we all are. We all look out for each other here.”   
  
Libra began slowly.  “My parents…they were not good to me.  My early memories of them are fuzzy, but I don’t remember a touch from either of them that wasn’t a beating.  My father ‘wanted a son, not a daughter’… I was always… like I am, in-between in appearance and…sensitivity, too, I guess.  My mother and father thought me possessed by demons.” 

 

Robin sat silent, her eyes wide, not knowing what to say.

 

“When they could no longer abide my presence,” he continued, “they dropped me off at an orphanage – and not one that was particularly caring.  The headmasters hated me as much.  Beatings were a daily occurrence for all of the children and none of them bonded with me, either.  After all of the bullying, I could take it no longer and ran away. I suppose it was a miracle that I was not caught and dragged back to that place…”

 

“Oh, Libra…” 

 

“I ended up in the streets of the capital, doing what I could to survive.  When I was searching a trash-barrel for something to eat… a man came to me.  He offered me a sack of gold coins and a present if agreed to ‘play a game’ with him.  I did not know what manner of game he wanted to play. He held me fast, pulled down my trousers and… I knew nothing of the desires of adults back then, all I knew was that he probed me in places I did not want to be touched and that it hurt.  He tossed me the gold when he was done and a small sheathed knife.  I was too stunned to do anything then, but when others like him came for me in the future, I used the knife to scare them away.  I wounded a few people, but mostly, I used it to cut purses… I…”

 

“Libra…” 

 

Robin approached him carefully.  She wanted to do something – rub his hand, offer him a hug, the kind of things she would do for others but did not know if she could do for him. To her surprise, he beckoned her closer and allowed her to hug him.  To her greater surprise, he buried his face in her shoulder and began crying. 

 

“Sssh… it’s okay,” Robin said, smoothly stroking his hair. 

 

 

 

The newly-released artwork took off among collectors and gallery-goers like wildfire.  Robin chose carefully what pieces to release and when.  Although she did think that the darker pieces would find a market, she could never have guessed what kind of a market.  Indeed, some art critics were proclaiming them “the true genius of Libra.”   
  
His name had been marginally known already.  He’d been a semi-famous artist, but his “hidden work” had catapulted him into a kind of stardom.  Not the least of this factor, Robin thought ruefully, was the fact that he was no longer around to create anything new. 

 

The Border Hills Home – already run mainly by Morgan and several monks and clerics, as well as some of the former children that had grown up in it, under Robin’s advice - would not hurt for any hiring of help it needed any for a good long time.  It wound not suffer want for decades and Robin would not have to solicit help from the Exalt. 

 

However, some of the people in Ylisse’s art-world were becoming pushy.  People came by the orphanage with little interest in making donations or giving gifts to the orphans, nor in adoption.  They came to inquire about art, possible sales thereof, and, most annoyingly, pushed for the acquisition of pieces that Robin was unwilling to give up.  

 

She kept the portrait that Libra had drawn of her during the war-years hidden in a journal, filed away in a shelf in her library.  It was the most special piece to her – for it was the drawing he’d done of her to reveal that he had fallen in love.  Robin also liked gazing upon it every now and again – it was an idealized portrait, but it was realistic enough that it remained a keepsake from the days before her face was wrinkled.  She’d smooth it out with bony fingers, remembering when she’d looked different, when her hands didn’t have a subtle shake.  Both of her sons – the one from the other time and the one that she and Libra had made in this one – knew of it and knew her wishes to keep this picture strictly in the family.  The nobles and assorted curators did not know of it.  She would keep it that way for as long as possible. 

 

One set of paintings, however, she was not able to keep from their scrutiny.  They originally had hung in her private study, but invasive visitors filed in to see them.  Eventually, Robin gave up and hung them in a spare room and started charging a small admission fee (a donation to the Home) to see them.  She’d lead them in so as not to disrupt the daily life of the children and teenagers that lived at Border Hills.  This pair of paintings had been given no titles by Libra himself, but became known as “The Phoenix Set.” 

 

Many who came to Border Hills were met with great astonishment upon encountering Robin and learning that she was THE Robin.  She was a legendary figure in her own right, but one that had sunk deep into a kind of myth.  In the first decade following the Fall of Grima, the details surrounding the Fall were kept a national secret of Ylisse.  Gradually, various truths had come out in winding ways, including the rumor that The Undefeated Tactician had not, in fact, vanished or had been killed in battle, but had returned. It had been vital to Robin’s quiet retirement to keep her identity secret, but as the years wore on, more and more people knew that she had married the artist-priest, Libra, and had run an orphanage with him. The stories told of her had ranged from a return from convalescence – healing from deep wounding over the two years nobody saw her, to returning from having gone to lands unknown for an extended time, to even the actual truth:

 

That she had given her life to destroy Grima and had been brought back to life by the bonds she’d made to the living.

 

“The Phoenix Set” was all about this.  The pair of paintings had been done in different times.  The first one to have been painted was done during Robin’s absence and had been an expression of Libra’s grief.  It depicted Robin in the foreground as a small figure fading into dust at the edges of her form.  Behind her was a falling black and gray phoenix, flanked by blue and purple flames.  It was a stark image depicting sacrifice.  The choice of a phoenix, Libra had told her when she’d first laid eyes upon the painting, was a matter of hope that like the story of the Phoenix, that her descent into ashes wouldn’t end with that. 

 

It had not - and he had painted the second canvas as a celebration of her return.  It depicted her standing in a triumphant pose with a golden, rising phoenix behind her, wreathed in bright multicolored flames.  The two paintings complimented each other and, wherever she hung them, Robin hung them as a set, side-by-side. 

 

These particular paintings were a set that she would forever remain attached to, despite the fact that they were born out of harrowing events. 

 

Robin regarded them as she sipped a cup of tea in the spare room after the gates of the Home had been closed and the children had been put to bed.  These paintings for her were like her husband’s braids had been for him – something not to be given up, despite the entire world’s urging.

 

 

She’d threatened to lop off that long mop of his, and it was no idle threat.  Robin stormed to the medical tent of the Shepherds’ camp as soon as she possibly could.   
  
Libra had nearly gotten his head cut off today.   A Valmese soldier had come up behind him and grabbed him by the hair. The enemy had yanked it back and applied the blade of his sword to the priest’s neck before Robin managed to hit him with an Arcthunder straight to the head.  She applied pressure to Libra’s wound even as he tried to get off his knees to keep fighting and called Cordelia over to give him an emergency-lift back to camp. 

 

Robin had worried for some time about the state of her troops regarding their hair and parts of their armor that were able to be grabbed.  She’d long considered capes a liability, regardless of Chrom’s thought on the matter.  The tactician had taken note of how some of their enemies kept their hair short-cropped as part of their uniform.  She’d given thought to cropping her own hair, negotiating with Cordelia to take a cut like Sully’s and the like.  She hesitated, of course, for reasons of morale.  The Shepherds were good enough in combat to keep things that could be a liability for any other group of soldiers for being so for them most of the time, but there were changes her sharp mind sorely tempted her to insist upon. 

 

She stepped into the tent to find her husband – they had married not long ago -  in a bed, bandages wrapped thickly around the base of his neck and his shoulders, a sheet over his chest.  His hair had been pulled to one side, still bloody. His clothes lay in a heap beside the bed. There was a stool and a basin filled with water nearby. 

 

“He’ll be alright,” Maribelle said to her.   “Frankly, it’s a miracle he hung on with how much blood he lost, but he’s responded well to the stave-work and the patching… We gave him a sleeping-draught, so he’ll be out for a while.” 

 

“Is there anything… I can do?” Robin asked numbly. 

 

“I was about to wash his hair.  You may do that if you like.”   
  
Maribelle smiled and positioned the stool with the tub of warmed-over water below the edge of the bed.  Robin gathered up Libra’s hair and dipped it in, letting Maribelle pass her a bar of soap.  She sighed as she worked. 

 

“He can cover up the back of his neck with a proper collar or armor,” Robin grumbled.   
  
“Hmm?” Maribelle inquired. 

 

“He doesn’t need all this… hair!” Robin complained.  “Don’t get me wrong, I love it from an aesthetic perspective, but… in battle…” she hung her head.  “It nearly got him killed today.  I might just buzz-cut us all.” 

 

“You can’t be serious!” Maribelle gasped.  “You are not coming near my refined locks with a pair of rusty shears! And you’d better not even think of touching dear Lissa!”

 

“Oh, I’m thinking razors,” Robin said as she scrubbed a scabby knot out of Libra’s tresses.  “Basillio had the right idea… nothing to grab or wrench or get caught anywhere…” 

 

As she gently began to undo Libra’s braids, she heard a low whisper. 

 

“Not…my hair…please…” he said with an exhaled breath.  “Don’t take my hair.” 

 

“Libra?” 

 

“I didn’t think he’d be awake so soon,” Maribelle commented.  “Don’t move.” 

 

Robin took one of his hands gently rubbed the top of it with her thumb. 

 

He smiled weakly as he looked up at her.  “I thought I’d met with a messenger of the gods, but…you’re even better.” 

 

“Just stay still.” Robin replied.  “I’m cleaning you up.”  

 

“Please don’t cut my hair.” 

 

“I’ll chop my own tails off if it makes this army safer,” Robin said, going back to washing.  She sighed sadly. “I know you want to keep that old scar covered, but I…we… almost lost you today, all because you had this mop whipping around and someone got lucky.” 

 

“Not too lucky… you saved me.” 

 

She went back to taking loose the braids.  “Hmmm… I’m not ready to hand down an order yet,” Robin said.  “I’ve always wondered why you keep the braids, though… You complain so much about everyone thinking you’re a woman – long hair is one thing, but these really take the cake.” 

 

Robin had witnessed Libra’s technique for braiding his own hair – taking the hair that would have fallen in his face if left loose, making and binding together twin-braids and then flipping it over his head, or else using a pair of mirrors to braid it around behind him.  He was surprisingly good at self-styling. 

 

“Don’t take them from me,” he begged in a weak whisper.  “They’re the memory of someone…” 

 

“Libra?” 

 

He’d fallen asleep.

 

 

Robin looked through the yellowed pages of one of the oldest leatherbound sketchbooks that Libra had left in the Home’s communal library – on the top shelf, hidden from little hands, but at rest lazily upon the carefully stacked books of the shelf. 

 

Much like the Phoenix Set, the buyers weren’t getting this, either.  It contained portraits of all the Shepherds when they had been young.  Some were gone now, some were still living.  There were scenes of camp-life.  No nasty warfare scenes, just gentle things – friends and nature-studies. 

 

This was the book that Libra had with him when he joined the Shepherds.  The earliest pages held images of people Robin only knew from his stories.  As she carried the book around she tucked the small watercolor she’d found on the desk of the “lost child” in next to an old pen-sketch of an elderly woman. 

 

 

 

Libra sat patiently in their shared tent in a small wooden chair, letting Robin try her hand at braiding.  It was a few days since the battle that had gotten Robin in a snit about shaving people’s heads.  She’d been talked down from it.  For the time being, Libra was not to be on the front until his wound had fully mended.  He was well enough for healing-tent duties, however, and had asked his wife to help him look his best. 

 

“Why always the side-braids?” she asked.  “I might as well go all the way and put it up in a full braid… or,” she grinned deviously, “pigtails… or buns…”   
  
Libra laughed softly.  “You wouldn’t dare.” 

 

“Oh, I would.” 

 

“You wouldn’t want Virion flirting with me again, thinking I was someone new in camp.” 

 

“You said something about the braids being a memory?” the tactician asked.  “Well, you were on a table and loopy from medicine…” 

 

“Yes,” he said seriously.  “Mother Sarah liked putting me in braids… well, when my hair got long enough for it.” 

 

“A strange thing to do to a little boy… assuming you were little when you knew her.” 

 

“She thought my hair was too nice to cut,” Libra began.  “She called it ‘spun sunshine.’  I guess you could call her a bit eccentric.  She was the person who found me and brought me into the faith.” 

 

“Oh?”

 

“When I was living in the streets… I got very sick.  It was the end of winter and I suffered what I now know to be a form of pneumonia.  I was so ill I couldn’t move.  Lady Sarah was on an errand in the marketplace and came across me in an alley, huddled up in a torn blanket I’d found somewhere and had been making much use of.

 

“She thought I was dead, actually. I remember her weeping and saying something about giving me a proper funeral.  She yelped in a most surprised way when she picked  me up and I squirmed… even more when I threatened to cut her.”

 

“You threatened a nun?” 

 

“I was sick and scared,” Libra said with  strange, rueful smile.  “I couldn’t reach my knife and wouldn’t have been able to swing it with any efficacy, anyway.” 

“Well, that must have been a pathetic scene,” Robin said, tightening a braid.   
  
“Mother Sarah brought me to the temple and got me something hot to eat.  My hair wasn’t quite as long back then… it was pretty scruffy, but I still… people still mistook me for a girl.  You should have seen her face when she had me strip down behind a screen for a bath after I came out from behind it.  She apologized profusely, saying she should have had one of the monks take care of me.” 

 

“What did you say?” 

 

“I told her it was okay because I trusted a woman more. Is that strange?”  
  
“Not at all.  You said it was the… uh… men who tried to hurt you… when you were alone.” 

 

“I remember being in that tub… the water was so warm… relaxing… It was like those hot springs we visited.  I didn’t want to get out.” 

 

“You didn’t want to get out there, either.” 

 

“It was like I was warm for the first time in my life.  I was so relaxed that I let Mother Sarah wash my hair until…”

 

“Until?” 

 

“Her fingers brushed my scar.  I leapt up like a scared rabbit.” 

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” 

 

“Everything came out then.  She suggested that I grow my hair out long if I wanted to hide it.  When it started getting long, she couldn’t help herself.  She wanted to braid it.” 

 

“It was sweet of you to let her.” 

 

“Well, she helped me learn to read… and she drew and painted and taught me the basics… And she wasn’t afraid of me when I was tasked with chopping firewood and she caught me imagining… um… splitting the heads of people who’d hurt me and various demons.  She taught me our worth in the gods’ eyes.  She taught me how to forgive.” 

 

Robin smiled as she finished her styling.  “I wish I could have met her.” 

 

“She left this world peacefully,” Libra explained.  “She… she was not one of the order lost in battle.  She left me, as everyone eventually does, but she did so quietly.” 

 

“For what it’s worth,” Robin said, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

 

 

Robin stepped into a familiar field to watch the sunset, holding the sketchbook.   She’d broken her promise once.  Whatever place her spirit may have gone to, she had no memory of it and it caused her no distress, but she definitely wanted Libra to be somewhere good. 

 

The first half of that man’s life had been a nightmare, but at least the other half had been fairly descent.  She looked behind her, watching the lamps lit in the orphanage windows. 

 

When the attendance was counted at Libra’s funeral, over one-hundred and sixty people came.  The surviving Shepherds were all in attendance with their families – including those that resided in Regna Ferox, Valm and Plegia.  There were children that she and Libra had raised, grown up with children of their own as well as those adult-children that had been adopted out over the years with their adopted families and the blood-families they had created. All of the current orphans of the Border Hills Home were there with the assisting monks and clerics as well as Morgan and Morgan.  There’d been a few of Libra’s art-fans, but they were overwhelmed by family and extended family. 

 

All told, Robin didn’t think that all that bad for someone who’d started out life alone – unwanted and unloved.  Considering the people that came out of the woodwork, the man had touched more lives than he’d realized. 

 

And all the same, the tactician knew that her dear priest would only have countered it all against the lives he’d taken in battle. 

 

Some people said that the truest art comes with angst and that the most brilliant of artists lead the most miserable of lives.  Robin did not know if that was true.  She’d won the “smiling game” in the end. 

 

She lightly thumbed through the sketchbook and looked back at the house. 

 

It was enough.

 

**Shadsie – 2016**

**Author's Note:**

> _Written to get some ideas about a favorite character out of my system and because I felt like writing about art. What better way to explore art in fiction than with a canon artist-character? Some realism in that regard is intended, as I do actually paint in physical media – so “bonus” for those who do also or know someone who does and noticed the little things. (I haven’t oil painted in ages, but I use acrylics, watercolors, inks and much odder materials. I know what can and can’t be mixed)._
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> _If there is demand (let me know by commentary) I am considering creating a few illustrations in the form of some of Libra’s paintings I’ve described here for the Ao3 version of this fic (Ao3 allows linked illustrations if you put them on Photobucket or a similar service). Let me know if you want to see something like this in comments as well as any other feedback. Don’t be shy. I won’t eat you… unless you taste like Doritos. Do you taste like Doritos?_  
> 


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